Abyad
by The Fabulous A.J
Summary: A 700 Word accompaniment to my story – ASWAD. When trapped inside a golden trinket, there is nothing to solidify your memories – nor the identity in which you’ve once upheld.


Author : D.H. Nightly

Rating : G

Summary : A 700 Word accompaniment to my story – ASWAD. When trapped inside a golden trinket, there is nothing to solidify your memories – nor the identity in which you've once upheld.

A/N Will probably be taken down and edited soon. A product of writers block.

* * *

Light.

The first thing that overwhelms his vision as he opens his eyes. He sees clearly the realm in which he is supposed to be imprisoned.

_Imprisoned._ How ironic that the one person who imprisoned millions is now imprisoned himself.

Imprisoned in what? _Ha_. In not a cell, nor a jail, not even a room at all...but an item.

Not just any item, however. An item made of the finest, most cherished gold, molded by the most skilled craftsmen, and enchanted, yes, enchanted by only the best sorcerers of the time.

Yet somehow, he found himself blinded by a light. He knew not what this light could be, just that it was bright, and hurting him.

Since when had his thoughts been so simple-minded, so one-tracked? He could think of nothing but this light that overwhelmed his senses. He could have sworn that he smelled the light, and if he reached out, he could feel the threads of brightness cloaking him, clouding his mind.

How to get rid of this wretched, painful nothingness that had overcome him?

How did he come to be in such a place, in such a predicament?

That a man of such power could find himself trapped like a helpless rat was laughable. If he had been able to, he would have laughed.

However, he found he couldn't, for his situation held no humor.

He tried to cry out, his words lost on his tongue as his mind blanked. Was he to admit he knew not how to speak his own language?

Then what language was he thinking in? He wondered, Do you have to think in a language?

Or is it possible to just _think_?

_Imprisoned_ – he knew not his own language, but he remembered well his life. How power had slowly taken him over, corrupted him and turned his heart to black.

How he wished he could forget the feelings of nothingness he encountered as he watched entire villages slaughtered under his command.

His command? Had he really commanded it?

He began to doubt … doubt … had that been him? Or had somebody else been there, and he had nearly been an anonymous spectator?

He knew then his memories would not be with him for much longer.

How much longer would he remember the color of his own eyes?

His eyes? What color were his eyes?

The eyes of a man were the keys, the window to a soul. He imagined his own eyes to be dark and guarded, not a window but in fact a door, tightly closed and locked for all eternity.

But what of his eyes, if they were not closed doors? Could they have been open, instead, an open door, a clear window for the kingdom to see his faults, and his deceptions?

He could doubt the latter, though it gave him no pain to do so. A pharaoh with his heart on his sleeve was a pharaoh with his foot in the grave.

Pharaoh. He was a pharaoh. But what pharaoh? What kingdom?

How much time had passed from his first glimpse of light?

Were his eyes even still open, or had the light been permanently plated onto his eyelids?

_Something had to be done_.

No more would he deal with the absence of shade, the absence of darkness.

Without darkness there is no mystery, and without mystery his blemishes, his discressions, shone as clear as Egyptian crystals.

Egyptian!

_He was an Egyptian Pharaoh._

Suddenly, it was clear.

And the light was gone.

He found that he was standing, on legs he did not recognize. His last thoughts were gone to him.

His foreign hands were of no use, as he blinked eyes he knew not the color. Around him, a fantastic labyrinth…an intricate mess of stairways and doorways, pathways and passageways…

Where would these take him?

Who was he? _Where_ was he?

Through his mixed, confused thoughts, he found those questions to be meaningless.

He found it did not matter who he was, where he had been.

All that mattered was where he was going.

He knew these staircases, these passageways, to be the key to his eventual freedom.

And he planned to discover them, one step at a time.

* * *

R/R Please 


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